Differential
by mindfluff
Summary: -"You and I, elf, are not so different." One of the more unlikely pairings in the Inheritance Cycle: Murtagh/Arya.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N; **-snort- I have to stop sidetracking from stories I'm working on… but I just don't have a big enough attention span. xD;

So, uh, yippee. This is a random Murtagh/Arya thing, because I think that their pairing just doesn't quite get enough love (although, there is one really good story out there called Black on White—check it out, much?). Or, if I really try for magic… This could be a prologue/first chapter for something (yep—me and my wishful thinking xP). (:

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…Uh, shoot. I don't know how to start. xD Hey wait! This'll be in present tense, eh?

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Flames dance, licking the oxygen from the air as its source of growth. Heat radiates, covering the total area and causing most in its radius to break in to a sweat. There are a handful, however, who remain unperturbed by the sight of fire.

He stands as a solid and inert figure, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Despite all the chaos and cacophony surrounding him, he remains still, the scene reflecting in his dark eyes. Flashes of metal spring up everywhere as sword slashes against sword. Sharp, metallic sounds race through the air, accompanied by labored breathing and cries of anger and contempt. Overheard, birds fly, crying out a cry that can only mean one thing.

Death.

Everywhere he looks, death is evident. Corpses lie strewn about carelessly, and he notices a soldier of the Empire's body lying dead, his arm sprawled out across the rigid body of one of the Varden. He notes with a bitter smile that should they have been alive, both men would have found it despicable to be lying as so.

_Ironic_, he thinks wryly. _Perhaps death brings men closer together._

"You."

It is a female's voice, sharp and raised. As he turns around, he finds himself thinking in addition to his former thought, _What about women?_

His eyes rake over the female figure, trailing down through every aspect of her. A sudden impulse of wishful thinking strikes him, as the need to explore the contours of her—both physical and mental—washes over him.

"You," he responds in turn, staring straight back at her. The bluntness of her gaze nearly causes him to flinch, but he manages to keep his composure smooth.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Her voice is melodic sounding—almost soothing. He relaxes, studying her face for a moment. When she draws her sword, however, his fingers dance quickly to his side and he unsheathes his own blade.

Without even knowing it, the two begin to move in a circular figure, gazes locked. They appear to be sizing each other up, though what is really passing between them is hard to fathom. In the depths of her eyes, he cannot exactly comprehend what he sees. All the signs of certain emotions are surprisingly there, contrary to what he has heard about her, yet he has difficulty interpreting them—and perhaps that is the biggest battle someone has yet to win against her.

"The pleasure is mine," he says sardonically, watching her warily. All around them, cries are ringing out—but neither of them makes any movement to defend others. They are swept up in this slowly moving dance, a dance made up of fighting off impulse and intuition.

She is beautiful—there is no getting around that. He cannot keep his eyes off of her, and he feels entranced by her ethereal exquisiteness.

This makes him angry.

He charges forward, his attack powered mostly by cunning and brute strength. Light glints off of his blade, reflecting off of its crimson red surface. His face is twisted in a mask of aggravation and resentment, though resentment for what, he cannot truly tell.

She raises her own sword and fends off his attack. The two begin a waltz of the most lethal kind; a waltz in which whoever makes one mistake—one false step, one false turn—is at the mercy of the other.

"Where's Eragon?" he asks, his voice slightly taunting. He senses her stiffen at the mention of the Rider, and he uses this slip of attention as a window to advance another attack. Despite her slight fault of concentration, their dance does not slow down. In contrast, it seems to speed in its rhythm, the clanging of metal relentlessly ringing.

"What do you fight for?" she asks all of a sudden, her lilting voice carrying out the words delicately, each syllable pronounced carefully.

This question catches him off-hand, and he nearly drops his blade in surprise. Still, his master has taught him well, and he quickly vanishes the surprise from within him. "I fight because I have to," he says roughly through gritted teeth.

"There must be a reason _why_ you fight, therefore there must be something that you fight _for_. I repeat again: what do you, Rider, fight for?"

He knows that she is mostly likely just trying to distract him, but this reasoning does not stop him from immediately jumping to his side of the story. "I fight because I have no other choice," he retorts, his response similar to his previous one. He has heard this question many times over, and each time, he has always had an answer prepared. This time, however, he doesn't. Maybe it's just because the scenery of battle is all around him and he feels pressured to say something else. Maybe he has finally just had enough of only telling the partial truth.

Or maybe it's because _she_ is asking him.

"You had a choice. You have _always_ had a choice," she says, and he registers a note of haughtiness.

"I swore oaths, elf," he snaps. He knows that she is getting straight at his sore spot with words, yet he cannot help himself as the words tumble out in his defense. "I swore oaths in the Ancient Language, the damn language that just doesn't know when to lay off. How about _you_ try and swear some oaths, and see how much you like it?"

"That was not the choice I was referring to. You can let me kill you."

The absurdity of this is too much. He howls with laughter as he continues his swordsmanship against the elf. "Eragon has said the same thing to me before," he says, grim mirth flickering in his eyes.

He is afraid, though. When Eragon had suggested this alternative, he had scorned the blue rider and had eventually been able to brush off the request, no problem. Now, however, he feels compelled to listen to the elf and to submit. What kind of trickery is this? He does not know much about the elf; therefore he should not feel much for the elf.

_What are you doing? Finish her! Or do I have to come and do it for you?_

A bleak smile tugs at his lips as he hears his dragon's voice. He lifts his gaze from the elf momentarily and spots his dragon nearby, fighting fiercely yet still training a blood-red eye on him. Some find the color of his dragon unnerving; he himself finds the rich color quite beautiful.

"What do you see in Galbatorix? What has he done for you?" she asks, and he can nearly hear the incredulousness in her voice as she does so.

He licks his chapped lips in order to buy him a little more time before he must answer the elf. "Power, elf. Power so great, it can make the whole of Alagaesia tremble beneath its might." He is aware of how ragged and wild his voice sounds as he says this, but he does not care.

As he meets the elf's gaze, questions present themselves one by one, each more unanswerable than the one preceding it. Does he believe in what he says? Is it possible to break his oaths? Is it possible that he can somehow escape Galbatorix's rule over him?

"Are you not capable of compassion, Rider? Thousands have died at your hand, and thousands more will soon follow suit if you do not stop. This battle right here is not the battle you want to be fighting, for yours still lies ahead, waiting for you to rightfully claim it."

_Perhaps she… is right._

He bites his lip as his dragon's voice enters his mind once again. He is worried to find that his dragon is uncertain. Never before have they both been uncertain about an issue; there has always been at least one of them who is certain what the correct path is. This time, however, they do not know what to do.

Thinking over what she has just said, he comes to a sudden realization. Her words are hypocritical, for she, too, has killed many, and he knows she will kill many more—just for the sake of her people. Her own battle, he realizes, is split in to numerous battles, battles he knows he cannot even begin to understand. Still, he finds a way to empathize deep in his mind, though he knows that he can very well be playing in to a trap.

A roar sounds out from overhead somewhere, and both he and the elf pause for a moment to glance skyward. A distant figurine soon comes closer and closer, eventually taking the full form of an azure dragon. He lets out a sigh, and seeing the elf distracted, mutters a quick "slytha," and pulls back his blade. She slumps to the ground, eyelids fluttering over the expanse of her jade eyes.

As his dragon approaches, ready to take to the skies, he sweeps a lingering gaze over the elf. Kneeling down by her, he makes a point to say something.

"You and I, elf, are not so different."

With that, he turns and walks toward the heart of the battle.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N;** Whee! Yep, I guess I've kind of decided to add another chapter and see how this plays out. (:

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Riding upon his dragon's back, close to nothing escapes his line of vision. Through hazy clouds of smoke and equally thick clouds of screams, he determines that both armies are fighting desperately and ruthlessly. When a man falls, another immediately steps forward. If there is progress from either side, it is slight, for even he cannot truly tell how the tides of war will turn.

When he was younger, the prospect of battle always seemed exciting to him. He had dreamed of winning glory and respect beyond belief. Now, he snorts at his past ignorance, and he is amazed at how he could have entertained such thoughts for so long. They are the thoughts of a wishful thinker, and they will not come true.

Even now, however, he sometimes wonders at how he can redeem himself in the eyes of the Varden. He tries to vanquish these thoughts, as he knows that these are the thoughts of a very stupid, stupid boy—but somehow, someway, that _elf _rekindled these hopes and wishes of his again, and as he flies in to battle, he cannot think of anything else.

Get her off of your mind—at least during battle—for if you do not, I fear we will both perish because of it.

He knows that what his dragon says is true, yet he cannot help but feel slightly irritated. He knows that it is nothing personal, and that in general he cannot allow distractions to enter his mind while he fights—but _she_ still remains caught up in his mind.

He looks to the battle—but he does not see. He hears the roars as the dragons collide—but he does not listen.

What is it about her? _What is it?_

Snapping out of his trance-like state for mere seconds, he looks up and meets the fierce gaze of the opponent. A dragon Rider. A highly skilled swordsman. A human transformed. A former friend.

At the thought of how his opponent used to be his companion, he can feel the bitterness of the situation._ War changes people_, he thinks dourly. _It turns brother against brother, comrade against comrade._

Then, it crosses his mind that his opponent is very nearly the elf's lover.

Numerous feelings pass through him, and when he reaches out to identify one of them, he is surprised at what it is.

Jealousy.

He has known jealousy, and for it to come sneaking in to his emotions at this particular moment—it is surprising. He has no time to ponder about this, however, as the fight draws even closer to him. He knows that his dragon cannot fight the battle by himself; he has to help as well. No matter how cliché it may be, he knows that together, he and his dragon can conquer anything.

Then why can they together not get the damn elf's face and words out of his mind?

The two dragons fly past each other, so close that if he reaches out, he can almost touch the scales of the blue dragon. He finds the color relatively mesmerizing—but it cannot even hold a candle to the rich crimson of his own creature.

Land, he tells his dragon. He can sense the confusion his beast feels at this order, yet he finds that his dragon obediently follows his orders—though not without trying to convince him otherwise. The blue dragon and her Rider follow suit, and they all touch down at approximately the same time.

As he dismounts, he surveys the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of the elf's face. His hopes are answered, though when he catches sight of her, a strange trill causes a faint tremor in the depths of his heart. Her face, frozen in a deep sleep, is peaceful.

His eyes delicately trace the features of the elf's face, staring longingly at the eyelids closed over the almond-shaped jade eyes beneath, the high, exotic cheekbones forming the sharp angles of her face, and the full shape of her lips. He senses the other Rider's eyes following his gaze, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Rider stiffen.

A ghost of a smirk flickers at his lips as he approaches his opponent.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N;** Ouch, it's been a while, huh? ^^;

Ah, well, I've just been really busy with school and people and everything in general. Haha. It's been a pretty rough yearrr~ But anyway, let's see if I can't come up with a new chapter for this story. ^^

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A delicate breeze skirts through the land, cooling the beads of sweat on the nape of his neck. Through the intensity of the heat, a chill runs down his spine, though he cannot tell if it is due to apprehension or something else. His dark eyes cannot seem to stay in one place; they flicker and wander and dance about.

His gaze focuses, however, when he reaches his opponent, the _glorious_, the _magnificent_, the _wondrous_ Shadeslayer. A sneer of contempt twitches at the lips as he beholds the blue Rider.

"Eragon, my comrade," he says, giving a mockery of a bow. In return, the blue Rider simply stares back at him, eyes hardened in to a glare.

He steps forward, the firelight refracting in his shadow-filled eyes. "Is that any way to treat me, Eragon? The two of us could be so, _so_ powerful together. Join me, join me and your worth will not be left to die here with this pathetic excuse of a force known as the Varden." His words fly through the air and slap the other Rider in the face, though if there is any emotion felt, there is none betrayed.

The only response he receives is an unwavering glare. The seconds tick by, and though the air around them is filled with dying screams and last breaths, the world surrounding the two Riders is silent, full of questions and dares and unity and dreams.

"Here stand the last two true Riders," he proclaims meticulously and majestically, "the ones in which the whole fate of Alagaesia rests."

"You are no true Rider," is the snapped reply, and within the instant of those words, swords are drawn in unison. The blades hiss their thirst for blood.

They circle one another at a slow pace. The winds pick up, and so does their footwork. It is he, the red Rider, who makes the first move, darting quickly and out of step, coming from the side. This is easily evaded, and returned with just as much agility. The battle continues in this give and take manner, neither of them slipping nor faltering.

He allows his mind to wander. He knows that he shouldn't, but he has confidence that he will not fail in battle even if he is not paying attention. Though his eyes are focused on his opponent and part of his consciousness is still fighting, the rest of him is lost in a void of thought, of regret, of darkness, and of light. He lets his own mentality guide him through the maze that is his mind. He is not pleased when he realizes what he is thinking about.

He's thinking about the elf. He's thinking about her feline posture, and how her back curves slightly. He's thinking about the slight protrusions of skin that mark where her collarbone is. He's thinking about the music and the radiance and the passion that she seems to encompass but never shows.

A sudden blow with the flat of opposition's blade finds him on the ground. He is dazed and at first does not even realize his back is not where it should be in combat. He comes to a realization that he is in danger, however, once he hears the fierce, loud growl of his dragon.

_Get up for heaven's sake! Get up before you are killed!_

If the growl from his dragon alerts him with its intensity, it is nothing compared to the mental message that pounds in his mind.

_You idiot! Get up!_

Thoughts of the elf swim through their connection.

_No, no! Murtagh, you fool! You have time for your idle daydreams when you are in no danger of dying._

_I am always in the danger of dying_ was the retort he gave before snapping back to pay attention when he saw that his opponent was speaking.

"I should kill you at this moment, but I do not kill when unnecessary. You have caused much havoc and pain, but it is never entirely your fault. You have risked your life and shown mercy to Saphira and I. For that, we are grateful, and for that, we extend this offer to you: I will spare your life, if you swear to come back and allow a group of handpicked spell casters, I being among their ranks, to work toward freeing you of your bond to Galbatorix."

"I have been made to swear too much, and have been given too little in return," is the answer. It is a surprising sentiment, for despite how he speaks tales and wonders of how Galbatorix has given him power beyond belief, this statement is lined with regret. It is as if the door has been happened, and he now sees everything clearly. This is false, however: he has been seeing and understanding everything since it all began. He knows that he is Galbatorix's tool and key to destruction, and he knows that everything inside of him wants him to fight back. But he can't.

"We can help you. But if you turn your back on us, I will need to kill you."

"Then kill me."

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She is not awake, but she is not deep in slumber. The effects of the spell cast upon her are wearing off relatively quickly, but not quite yet. Instead, she finds herself a figure wandering through the dark part of her subconsciousness. She steps lightly, cautiously. She finds that even though there is no visible light, she can see perfectly fine.

_Come to me, Arya, as I have come to you._

She bites her lip when a figure steps out in her path. She holds her head high, masking any sign of fear.

_Do not be afraid._

She is afraid. She is petrified. She is terrified. She wants to scream, but she can't. There is no oxygen. There is only darkness, suffocating, clutching at her arms, her eyes, her throat, suffocating, drinking the life from her, breaking her, darkness…

"We can help you. But if you turn your back on us, I will need to kill you."

"Then kill me."

These statements awake her from her visions. She opens her eyes and stands up in a fluid motion. She will think nothing of what she has just witnessed. She will move on. She does not need to dwell over such matters that are probably foolish anyway.

Her eyes flicker to where the two Riders are, their dragons keeping a sharp eye on the battle. She longs to rush in, to help—and then she stops in the middle of this thought. To help who?

Eragon, of course. Why should she help that traitor son of Morzan?

She stares at the two men. She cannot help it. She stares, and stares, her eyes unwavering, unblinking. So different, so alike, so, so, so—she cannot push herself to find the correct word. She swiftly looks at Eragon, then focuses on the red Rider.

Once she does, she cannot tear her gaze away.

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**A/N;** I'm kind of in a hurry to get this up right now since I'm tired and I want to go to sleep, but, uh, yeah. There might be some mistakes or something near the end. ^^;

Well, that's pretty much it. Thanks for reading. (:


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